Homemade
by The Fandom Garrison
Summary: When Elsa let go of that cloak...it ends up hitting Jack quite literally in the face (Or, The One Where Jack Gets His Hoodie).


**hey guys. Found this rattling around in my 'unposted progress' folder. Just a little one-shot for you. I was just wondering...what actually happened to Elsa's cloak? **

Jack Frost wasn't cold, of course. He just felt very, uncomfortably naked.

His trousers had thankfully survived the attack of the bramble bush, but his cloak and shirt were another matter (in hindsight, it was entirely Jack's fault for falling asleep at the wheel—or the wind, rather—but it's not like the shrub could defend itself). And while the plant itself was now broken and crushed and altogether doomed, Jack's upper clothing, which had served him well for a century and a half, had suffered the same fate. He had crashed head first into the thorny branches, slicing his shirt to ribbons and tearing his cloak to shreds.

So, at present, he now sat on the icy ground, the feel of the air uncomfortably acute on his bare, scraped-up chest and back as he sat despairingly among the torn scraps of cloth. A grimace of frustration was painted on his pale face and his bright blue eyes were tight with stress. He knew he couldn't just go around like this—he _needed_ to cover up! But the frayed scraps of incredibly aged cotton were useless now—all he could do was leave them. With more than a little reluctance, he drew himself up to his feet using his staff and rose into the blue, blue sky with practiced ease.

Normally, he could just pilfer a spare jacket or coat from shop or wealthy home; only now, there was none to spare in the midst of a bloody 'Civil' War, as he had heard it been called (The colonies were in vicious turmoil—how could that be civil? Whenever such a phrase was used, Jack would experience the oddest vision of richly-frocked gentlemen engaged in a sort of staged, hand-to-hand scuffle). The year was about 1862, and Jack couldn't bear to take anything that might benefit the soldiers.

He headed listlessly in the direction of Romney, West Virginia—a Union state that was doing fairly well at the moment. Maybe he could find—

_Plat! _

Jack yelled with shock as something thick and heavy wrapped around his head, obscuring his vision with rich purple. He was falling again–

Proof! Ah! Yes, thankfully the wind had managed to steer his blind form to a snowdrift. He landed safely but still unseeing, and he grunted with the effort as he tried to unwind the coiled thing—

Finally, he succeeded in yanking it off his head, leaving him feeling considerably frazzled. But the dense material he held in his hands was indeed...cloth?

It was the most bizarre thing Jack had ever seen. Even in his extensive life in the colonies, he'd never seen such fine fabric. Curious, he lifted it in his hands, weighing the thick material. Unlike the rough, thin homespun or even the scratchy, smelly wool he'd seen all his life as worn by the varying classes in the colonies, this shapeless clothe was soft and warm. Jack frowned as he turned it this way and that. It wasn't a shirt, or trousers...it was too open to be such a thing. Suddenly, a lightbulb went off. A shawl! That's what it must be! And a luxurious one, as well.

Clambering to his feet, Jack wrapped it around his shoulders. It felt odd, and wouldn't do for long. It would flap in the wind and—

Another lightbulb burst to life, and Jack commanded the wind to take him to town.

An hour later, Jack was ready to begin.

His tongue poked through his lips as he poised his acquired shears (borrowed shears, he reminded himself) at the seam of the fabric and began to cut with meticulous care. The scissors, meant chiefly for cutting the wool off sheep, were heavy and awkward in his hand, but he ignored the cramping in his fingers and sliced fearlessly forward. Snick! With a clean, final snap, the cloth split in half.

He had a long way to go.

—•—•—

Nearly three hours of slicing, stitching, and poking himself in the thumb with the needle, Jack stood looking proudly at his home made garment.

Using knowledge gained from watching women in dress shops, Jack had used the material from the purple cloak to make a shirt. It wasn't perfect—one sleeve was a good inch longer than the other and the hood of the cloak (which he'd sewed back on) was comically lopsided, but Jack didn't care. This was something he'd made! And it was awesome!  
>His stomach fluttering with anticipation, Jack pulled the makeshift clothing over his head and carefully stuck his arms into the sleeves, making sure not to question the fragility of his stitches. It was perfect! Well, it felt a bit odd after a century and a half of wearing nothing else than his own shirt and cloak, but he could get used to it.<p>

Jack took back into the sky, feeling the wind tug at his new clothes. It felt oddly silky, but he ignored the feeling. He watched, fascinated, as frost began to web across the fabric, settling at the cuffs of the mismatched sleeves and threading from the slightly ragged collar.

He liked it.

At least what the Easter Bunny said was wrong. He didn't destroy _everything_ he touched.

—•—•—

It's been many years, and the hoodie has served him well.

Even so, the sweat shirt is unrecognizable now. The royal purple, after decades of exposure to the elements, has faded to a white-blue, and the inner sleeves are lumpy from the stitching and re-stitching required to keep the clothing item in one piece. The frost has now permanently permeated a pattern onto the cuffs and shoulders.

All in all, the eccentric garment is just another thing that tops his image as the guardian of fun.


End file.
